Young and Beautiful
by saoirseronans
Summary: New York, in 1929. Cato and Clove both lead very different lives but when they are unexpectedly brought together, they realise that they have two things in common: their unconditional love for each other and a shared violent passion that would eventually drive them to tragedy. Rated T for language and sexual content. R&R.
1. Chapter 1

_ Hi everyone! It's been a very long time since I've written anything The Hunger Games related and even_ _longer since I've written Clato. This story began as an AU meme I did on tumblr but the story had been playing in my mind so long I just had to write it down. I'm only looking for this to be about six or seven parts to it but I am very excited to be sharing this with you! It was inspired mostly by The Great Gatsby and the Lana Del Ray song that it takes its title from just because I love them both and the song so reminded me of Clato. Anyway, enough rambling for now, I hope you enjoy this first chapter and if you would be kind enough to leave me a review I would very much appreciate it. Happy reading!_

_Isabelle xx_

* * *

New York, 1929. High above the city's growing skyline, the early July pink and golden sun was sinking deeper and deeper into the violet sky, while the early flicks that foretold of stars were beginning to emerge, peppered across the sky like the sequins on a flapper's dress in a speak easy. Down below, the last of the young Wall Street workers were drifting away from their offices, locking the doors behind them and pocketing the keys, ready to return the next day to repeat the same dreary routine over and over until they'd made their fortune.

To the east of Wall Street was one of the city's shadier districts, where women stood on balconies over the street, pegging out their washing while hollering across the road to their friend's balcony. Others were tottering down the sidewalk, holding their cigarette the way they did in the movies, between the first two fingers and taking long drags. Pulling the stick away from their mouths, they blew smooth, clear, smoke rings. In the middle of the road and on the pavements, young children dragged chalk sticks across the concrete to create hopscotch patches and ran shrieking after balls, calling to one another in their high pitched, excited voices.

Just five doors down from where one group of children were eagerly playing, a sleek black motor car with a chauffeur was waiting outside the only house in the street with a red door. As it got darker and a chill brushed against his skin, the chauffer shivered and his moustache twitched nervously. Glancing at his watch, he sucked in through his teeth. Three hours. That must be some kind of new record.

Suddenly, the red door opened and a young man of about eighteen or nineteen hopped out. The chauffeur sat up straight and tried not to watch. The man turned back to speak to someone at the door, a smile playing at the sides of his lips as he reached back inside. From the car, the chauffeur could hear the giggles coming from inside and he twisted his head away, embarrassed. Finally, the young man gave one last wink to the girl inside and, after jumping down the steps of the house, opened the door to the back seat of the motor car and got in.

'Drive,' he ordered and the chauffeur obeyed.

Honking the horn, he drove straight, scattering the group of children in front like frightened hens at the farmyard. The young man behind him chuckled at their surprised screams and leant back, satisfied. The chauffeur resisted the urge to shudder and steadied his hands on the wheel.

'Where to, sir?' he asked his young master.

'The hotel,' was his reply. 'I want to freshen up before tonight.'

'Very good, sir.'

Night was now fully settled over New York City. The stars had come out in their millions, thanks to a cloudless sky, casting a shadowy glow over the streets which made it easy to see, even without the new streetlamps. It was late enough for the parties to have begun, and as the motor car zipped through the centre of Manhattan, they could see the revellers coming out in their hapless drones, to the movie screens, the restaurants or the clubs, dressed in all their finery: furs, silks, sequins and bowler hats with matching waistcoats. The lights were blazing in Times Square and when the car stopped in the queue, the chauffeur could hear the tauntingly close notes of a jazz band, starting up for the evening.

The hotel they were travelling to was on the outskirts of Brooklyn, and was speculated to be the best hotel in New York: 'The Sword and the Knives'. The chauffeur's young charge was staying there while his father dealt with business on Wall Street, as he would be for most of the summer and maybe even into the fall. Meanwhile, his son was having the summer of his life, spending whatever he could wherever possible and having as much fun as he deemed acceptable. Which was a lot.

They drew up outside the luxurious entrance to the hotel, and the chauffeur parked up behind the fleet of other motor cars, in various garish colours and styles. The hotel was lit up with electric lights inside and candles flickering on the walls outside. Valets waited anxiously outside the doors, watching for anyone approaching who would require their services.

'Here we are, sir,' he declared, switching off the ignition.

'Thank you, Orwell,' his charge said, with a smile. 'That will be all, for tonight, I think.'

Orwell raised his eyebrow, then remembered himself. 'You are, uh, not going out again tonight, sir?'

'No, no,' the young man grinned. 'I think I'll have a quiet night in tonight, actually.'

'Good night then, sir.'

'Good night. Oh, I almost forgot,' the young man paused, half in and half out of the car. 'My friend, Ameile, might be popping around, later on, to see me. You might,' Cato Maxwell, son of the business tycoon Andrew Maxwell, said with a sly grin, 'might, be kind enough to bring her up to my suite for me?'

'Is this your friend from this afternoon, sir?' Orwell asked uneasily.

'No,' Cato answered breezily. 'No, Ameile is…a new friend. You will send her up, won't you?' His tone turned hard and dangerous, as quickly as the tide turns in a storm.

Orwell bowed his head, sensing the danger. 'As you wish, sir,' he obliged.

Cato's charming grin reappeared just as easily as it had vanished. 'Wonderful. I knew you'd see it my way. Well, I'll see you in the morning, Orwell. Sleep well.'

Slapping the side of the car door, he leapt away from the pavement and up the steps of the hotel. The valets stepped aside and with a sweep of the doors, Cato vanished inside the hotel. Orwell sighed, drawing his hands over his eyes and gave a deep shuddering breath. _Lord have mercy on me_, he thought to himself, getting out of the car and preparing for the arrival of this girl he was supposed to be watching for. Cato had had so many 'friends' this summer, that he hardly bothered to recall their names anymore. None of them had appeared for more than a week at a time anyway.

He had only been waiting for an hour or so, when a tall, elegant blonde dressed in powder pink with a silk bolero tied around her. Orwell could tell just from looking at her that this was Amelie. As subtly as he could manage, he pressed the spare room key into her baby soft palm as she passed him. With a swish of her slim hips, the girl sashayed up the steps and floated into the hotel. The valets closed the doors behind her with a soft click.

* * *

Clove Anderson snapped her lipstick shut with a soft click. Bringing her ring finger up, she dabbed gingerly at the bright red stain on her lips, pursing them until she was fully satisfied with the result. Sighing, she got up from her dressing table chair and gave one final twirl in front of the antique mirror that always stood in the corner of the room.

Perfect. Her dress was utterly perfect. It was cream, and was a fairly simple shift cut, except for the blood red feathers that peeked out from under the hemline with a flick and the matching ribbons at her neckline and on the sleeves. One ribbon had been left over from making the dress and she had insisted on keeping it. On a whim this evening, she had wrapped it around her neck like a choker, tying a little bow at the side. With her red shoes and dark hair pinned up in curls, she was assured to be the most stunning woman at the party. Even if she was only seventeen.

The party was to celebrate the success of her latest film: Snow White, in which she had played the title role (of course). People had been so moved by her performance, so she had been told, that they passionately wept, quite openly in the cinema. That was good. Clove liked the idea of that a lot.

'Are you almost ready, ma'am?' an assistant asked hesitantly, poking her head around the door.

'Almost,' Clove replied, waving her away. 'Just give me a minute.'

Lightly, she lifted a perfume bottle from her dressing table and gave a few squirts behind her ears and one on her wrists. The scent was floral, but there was a bitter under-scent which Clove adored. The perfume made her feel confident, like she could achieve anything, be anyone. It made her untouchable.

Tossing her hair and feeling the satisfying swish of the curls across her shoulders, Clove grabbed her small bag and walked over to the door. Just before opening it, she paused and took a deep breath. After just a split second, she pinned a dazzling smile on her face and pushed the door open to reveal the flashes of the camera and the cries of the dozens of people waiting.

Showtime.

* * *

Cato rolled over in the sheets, sighing as the bare skin on his chest brushed against the soft cotton of the bedding. Across the bed, there was a sleepy murmur and the woman's body that was lying next to him shifted so it was facing away from him, to the wall. Cato smiled absently and slid from the bed, running a finger down the silhouette of her curves as he went.

Yanking on a pair of trousers, he flung open the balcony doors and stepped out into the crisp night air. Out below him, the city was still buzzing, even this late at night. He could still hear the jazz music far in the distance and the laughter of the revellers. Somewhere in Manhattan there was a party he had been invited to. It had been a celebration for some film and in the end he'd decided not to bother going. There didn't seem much point if he wasn't the centre of attention.

He flicked a match and lit a cigar, puffing on it slowly. From far off, there was a crash and several screams, accompanied by some colourful swearing even he wouldn't dare use. Poor buggers, he thought and the thought itself was fairly general. It could have been directed to whoever had just crashed their motor, whoever would now have to scrape it off the road, whoever didn't have a beautiful woman to fuck when he wanted, whoever wasn't as rich as him or actually anyone who wasn't him.

From back inside, Ameile moaned and stretched lazily, before huffing contentedly and turning over again. Cato grinned at her and tossed his cigar over the side of the balcony before sloping back into the room and back into bed.

As they slept, with the white drapes fluttering in the breeze, the buzz of the city before them began to dim. As dawn crept closer and the parties started petering out, the buzz settled to a faint hum.

It was about as close to sleeping as New York City ever came.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Hi again, guys! Wow, thank you all so much for all the wonderful reviews you have left, they made me so happy this week. I'm so glad you all enjoyed the 'filler' first chapter so much. Sadly, this will be the last chapter for two weeks because I'm going on holiday to Spain (yay!) but don't worry, I will be drafting future chapters while I'm there and a Host fanfic too so if you've the book I'll have that up soon (and if you haven't read the book then what are you waiting for?)! Have a good few weeks everyone and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I have a feeling you might! ;)_

_Isabelle xx_

* * *

'Are you coming to breakfast?'

'Hmm?' Clove was rudely jolted out of her thoughts and responded with a scowl, aimed in the direction of her guardian, Mrs Enobaria Beauchamp, who had so dared to interrupt her. 'What?'

Mrs Beauchamp repeated her question with a forced smile. 'Are you coming to breakfast, Clove?' She was standing in the doorway coming out of the drawing room, her arms crossed, watching Clove carefully, as was always her way.

'In a bit.' Clove waved the woman away with a flick of her wrist and continued to examine her face in the large mirror in the hall.

With a roll of her eyes, Enobaria Beauchamp left her ward admiring her complexion and wandered into the breakfast room to join her husband, Brutus, as he ate his breakfast and read the daily newspaper. The Beauchamps lived in a large estate just north of the river Hudson. They were that rare breed of people in the city who possessed both 'new' and 'old money. Brutus Beauchamp had been the son of a wealthy man who had, after his death, left his only son a hefty inheritance which would have been enough to sustain him and his wife comfortably for the rest of their days. Brutus' best friend had died in the Great War, leaving his five year old daughter Clove in Brutus and Enobaria's care. The two had taken the child in and struggled to raise her as their own. It had, however, become easier to do so since Clove had caught the eye of a film producer a few years back and had started making movies. It had been her money with which the three had padded out the house and gardens with every luxury they could.

'Is she coming?' Brutus asked his wife, not raising his eyes from the paper.

'Soon,' she replied, coolly, settling her skirts around her as she sat down. A butler stepped forward with a plate of egg and bacon but Enobaria waved it away. 'Bring me some yogurt and fruit, instead,' she ordered.

'You know, you'll get no energy from that,' a voice claimed, sarcastically from the doorway. Both Beauchamps spun their heads to watch Clove stalk her way across the room to her chair. She was dressed in her usual attire: simple, but still well enough made for it to be obvious she was rich. Today, the dress was a light sky blue and she wore black patent Mary-Janes.

'I do not want energy,' Enobaria replied, pouring some juice into an elegantly cut glass cup. 'I want something light this morning.'

'Right.' Clove picked up her knife and began buttering a slice of toast. 'After all, I don't suppose you'll be doing much today, will you?' Taking her toast, she drifted away to the vast windows that looked out onto the garden below.

Enobaria and Brutus shared a glance. Clove was renowned for her snide comments and they had been trying to curb it for years now. Unfortunately, she was also known for her fiery temper too and past attempts had always resulted in harrowing screams and dangerous tantrums. The last time, one stableboy had been lucky to come away with his head.

'Did you enjoy the party last night?' Brutus asked his ward, desperate to avert her attention.

Clove gave a shrug of her slim shoulders. 'It was fine.'

The Beauchamps shared another glance. 'Will you be attending the one tonight?' Brutus tried again.

'You could have a new dress,' Enobaria offered.

'No.'

'You don't want to go?'

Clove turned sharply. 'Was I not clear enough? No, I don't.'

'Why not?' Enobaria was losing her own temper. 'It is being thrown in your honour…'

'No, it is not,' Clove snapped. 'It is being held in 'Snow White's honour. Not mine. We are not interchangeable, you know. She is a film. I am a person. It seems everyone else in this godforsaken world is forgetting it.' Throwing the remainder of her toast to the ground, Clove faced her guardians down and watched for their reaction.

They were pathetic, the both of them, she thought sullenly. Sitting there like frightened rabbits, afraid to move for setting me off like a Chinese firework. The thought of that ought to have given her power but instead it just left an empty hole inside her. To try and cover it, she crossed her arms over her middle defensively.

Brutus Beauchamp stood and walked slowly around the table towards her. 'Perhaps you will change your mind?' he asked, his voice kept even but cold, like he was talking to a wild dog.

Clove's arms sagged and her heart dropped in her chest. 'Perhaps,' she replied, taking the same tone that he had done. Lifting her chin, she turned away from them and out of the door, leaving the forgotten toast and its butter bleeding into the new carpet.

* * *

Cato woke late that morning and found himself alone in the great bed. He arched his back and gave a pleasurable moan, before sinking back into the cool sheets. He wasn't even bothered about where Amelie had gone. Who cared? He could find someone new, just as good as her.

A soft knock on the door roused him from his stupor.

'Come in,' he grunted, raising himself to his elbows.

Orwell poked his head through the door. 'Oh, excuse me, sir,' he stuttered, 'I thought…'

'Oh, come off it, Orwell,' Cato said, smiling wickedly. 'I am perfectly decent. Now,'' he hopped out of bed, 'where did you put my shirts?'

'In the wardrobe, sir.'

'Ah!' Cato picked out a white shirt and threw it on. 'What time did Amelie leave?'

'I am unaware, sir,' Orwell replied, doing his best to avert his eyes while his young master dressed. 'But I do know that she collected her…payment.'

Cato nodded absently; already the charming Amelie was fading from his mind. He was moving on, hard and fast. 'So, what shall we do today, Orwell?'

'I don't know, sir,' was the chauffeur's tired reply. 'Is there something you wish to do?'

'I think there is a party somewhere,' Cato mused, lighting another cigarette.

'There is always a party somewhere in New York,' Orwell murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

'Exactly,' Cato proclaimed, already pouring over the stack of invitations he kept beside his bed. 'The trick is finding the best one to go to. Aha!' Gleefully, he produced a black, gilded envelope from the stack. 'This is the one. Best party New York City has ever seen! And it begins tonight.'

Orwell peered doubtfully at the card. 'Are you sure, sir?'

'When have I ever been wrong, Orwell?' Cato chuckled. 'When have I ever been wrong? Now, come on,' he called over his shoulder, already halfway out the room in his eagerness. 'I need a new suit for tonight.'

* * *

The party was being held at the director's mansion in Brooklyn. It was a decedent building; built in the new art deco style and decked out with even more luxury than the Beauchamps house (if that were even possible). Inside was decorated with rugs and wall hangings from all over the globe, outside the gardens were exquisitely tended to by a flock of expert gardeners.

The dock going down to the river edge was lit by hundreds of tiny candles, each of which was replaced daily. There was a fresh water swimming pool with a mosaic dolphin on the floor in the back garden. With the dozens of reception rooms in the house, giant ballroom and built in wine bar, the house was a perfect venue for a party.

Clove stood, clutching her gold wrap around her shoulders, frowning at the front doors of the place, lit up like Heaven with tiny electric lights climbing up the ivy like stars. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be home, with a book, in her bedroom holding a cup of hot chocolate, not here at this ridiculous party with ridiculous people celebrating her character by getting drunk and dancing till dawn.

She didn't even know why she had agreed to go in the first place, but by lunchtime Enobaria had worn her down to agreeing. Clove had made sure that she upheld her end of the bargain though: they had brought a brand new dress and matching shoes that afternoon. She swished the skirt around her knees, satisfied. The dress was the only good thing about that whole evening. It was short, and black, with a low waist and a drop down skirt, decorated in billions of tiny sequins stitched in a geometric pattern around the top and glittering in a waterfall down the skirt. The shoes were golden, to match her shawl and the Grecian headdress that adorned her curls which were all pinned up. Even if Clove didn't feel like she belonged there, at least she looked like she did.

'Just get it over with,' she muttered to herself and, straightening her shoulders, marched up the front steps and threw the front doors wide open.

The party was already in full swing, but it was better to be fashionably late than early, in Clove's mind. The jazz band was playing a jaunty tune on the mezzanine above the ballroom and on the dance floor couples were spinning around so fast they just looked like a blur to Clove. She could see the women kicking their legs out behind them and their necklaces swinging while their partners danced around them enthusiastically. Combined with the noise and bright colours of the room, it made her head hurt.

Turning away, she left the ballroom and moved into the bar, where even more people were clustered, hooting with laughter as they drank. Men gambled on the spare tables and every so often there would be a yell of joy combined with a wail of despair.

'What can I get you, miss?' the barman enquired. Clove shrugged. She didn't really drink.

'A soda water,' she suggested and he handed it over. Taking it, Clove moved on, edging her way past the already drunken revellers and into the garden.

It was somewhat quieter outside; the noise had further to travel. She could still hear the jazz band from inside, but it was far more muted and the darkness outside eased her eyes. There were fewer people in the gardens too, mostly couples strolling around drinking or young men leaning on pavilions, smoking. Clove walked further up, to the flower gardens. It was nicer there; the soft fragrances of the flowers were enhanced in the dark. She supposed it was because once one sense had been dulled the others came out in full force. She plucked a red rose and sniffed it. Typical, she thought, tossing it back into the low hedge. All the flowers in the garden and I pick the one without a perfume.

* * *

Cato had noticed her as she passed by. It was hard not to, in the circle of pigeons cooing into his ear at this party she was a raven.

He had been leaning up against a tree off to the side of the garden, desperate for some quiet. He loved the attention he had been paid as much as the next man, but sometimes it did just get a bit much. He had just taken a cigar out of his pocket and was searching for a match when she had floated by, holding a glass. He had had to stop, and stare at her, holding his breath.

He watched, as she wandered over to the flower gardens and picked a rose. It was red, he noticed. She sniffed it then threw it back down into the flower bed, a disgusted look twisting her face up. It made him smile. It reminded him of himself

'You don't like roses?' he asked, suddenly. She spun around, startled, and her hand went instantly to her hip, feeling for something.

'Who's there?' she demanded, her fingers curling around something as she scanned the garden around her, trying to find the source of the voice.

Cato stepped out of the shadows and raised his head. Her forehead creased and, slowly, her hand retreated from her waist and down to her side. 'I'm not so fond either,' he continued, reaching down to retrieve the rose. 'Everyone makes such a big deal out of roses, but there are so many more beautiful flowers, especially in this garden.' He twisted the stalk in his fingers and glanced up at her. 'Don't you think so too?'

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. 'Who the hell are you and why were you following me?'

God, she was intense. Cato couldn't tell if it was the incense of the flowers around them or her personality that was making it hard for him to breathe. He ploughed on.

'I had an orchard back home. Now, those apple blossoms in the spring! So sweet and pretty! Nowhere near as showy as roses. God, what I wouldn't give to be there now…'

Almost subtly enough, he shifted his body so that he was close enough to her to take her wrist and hear her breathing. Almost. Before he knew what was happening, she had twisted his arm behind him and shoved him up against a tree, her feet on his and his arms pinned to his sides with her only free one, because the other had a knife pressed to his throat.

'What, do you keep that thing in your waistband or something?' he gasped, once he had got enough breath back to speak.

'A bag wouldn't have gone with this dress,' she replied breezily, teasing the knife along his neck. From that angle, he could see that it had a mother-of-pearl handle and a silver makers mark on the blade. 'I'll ask you again. Who the hell are you?'

'Take the knife away and maybe I'll tell you,' he growled. He probably would have told her even with the knife, but he didn't like being restrained. It didn't do anything to flatter his ego.

Disdainfully, she pulled back, but kept the knife up. Cato pushed himself away from the tree and started walking around her, but just forty degrees.

'I'm Cato Maxwell,' he said, offering her his hand. 'Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Miss…?' he gestured for her to reply with her own name.

'You really don't know who I am?' She sounded genuinely confused. And he'd been worried about his own ego…

'I'm sorry if that offends you,' he replied, sarcastically. 'But I haven't exactly been in New York long enough to know every name and match it with a face.'

'I wouldn't expect you to,' she snapped back. 'But seeing as my face and name have been flying on billboards over Times Square for the past month, I might have thought you knew me.'

He hesitated, looking even closer at her face. Caught in the moonlight, he could see every tiny flaw in her skin. God, she couldn't be. Fuck, she was. 'Snow White,' he admitted.

She scowled at him. 'Clove Anderson,' she corrected. 'I'm not actually my character, but no one else seems to have grasped that.'

'A pleasure to meet you,' he repeated, holding his hand out again.

'I held a knife to your throat.'

'Almost a pleasure to meet you,' he corrected himself, retracting his hand once again.

She might have smiled, had a clock not chimed from far off inside the house. Her head jerked around, making her curls spin out behind her, like a cloak of black. 'Was that midnight?'

'I think so. Why what's the matter?' he grinned at her. 'Is your carriage going to turn into a pumpkin again and your dress to rags?'

'That's Cinderella, you imbecile,' she muttered. 'And no, midnight was the earliest I was allowed to leave the party. So I'm leaving.'

'Wait, no you can't go!' He stepped forward to try and stop her, forgetting about the knife. She turned back around, still brandishing it.

'Oh? And why not?'

'I thought…maybe you'd like to spend some time with me tonight?' he ventured.

Clove scoffed. 'I'm no whore,' she declared. 'And thank you for the offer, but I think I will survive without your company for tonight, anyway.'

'Maybe I'll see you again, this summer,' Cato said, trying to be casual.

She gave a little laugh, shaking her head so the curls tumbled across her shoulders. 'I wouldn't count on it, Mr Maxwell,' she called over her shoulder as she walked away. The last he saw of her before she melted back into the dark was the silver glint of the knife as she slid it back inside her waistband.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hi again, everyone! First of all, I'm really, really sorry that I've been so long updating but I was away for two weeks and I've had literally no time this week. If you're still prepared to read this after all that time then I will salute you and kiss you for being an utter angel. Second, thank you all so much if for all the wonderful reviews you left! Just reading them makes me want to cry you're all so sweet and lovely and I want to kiss you again. Thirdly, I just want to thank my lovely friend Josie (GatnissShamyClato, everyone go read her stuff and love her) for telling me what the thing that flowers tend to come in and brides carry is. And finally, I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

_Love, Isabelle xx_

* * *

Morning broke. As the drapes were pulled back from the windows by a maid dressed in black and white, Clove moaned and pulled the covers over her head in a vain attempt to black out the offending light.

'Good morning, miss.'

'Is it?'

The maid had the good sense to not reply.

It had been three days since the party at the director's mansion and Clove had barely left her room since she'd crashed back through the door at one am that morning. It wasn't so much that she was hiding. More that she didn't want to be found.

When Clove finally nuzzled her face out from the duvet, the maid had left, leaving a tray filled with hot tea and crumpets on the table by her armchair. Sliding out of bed, Clove grabbed her bedrobe to wrap around her and padded over to flop down in the chair. She poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it lazily, as she gazed around her bedroom.

She'd had it redecorated last year, and overseen the whole thing with an iron grip. The wallpaper had been personally designed for her and the pattern was of a green vine with pretty little red flowers growing up a pale blue background. The furniture was a deep oak wood, polished and sleek, and the soft furnishings piled on her bed matched the shades of the wallpaper perfectly. She had special shelves for all her books, a low couch to lounge on and read them, a dressing table full of her perfumes and lipsticks and, her pride and joy, a walk in closet filled with all her beautiful dresses. There were times that Clove liked to just walk through and trail her hands across all the silks and satins and let the feel of the materials slip through her fingers, revelling in the memories that came with them.

A knock at the door roused her from her pondering and made her snap to attention.

'What is it?' she snapped as Enobaria's head poked around the door.

'There's no need to be rude,' her guardian replied, coolly. Clove rolled her eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation. Enobaria crossed her arms over the sheer fabric of her shirt.

'What is it?' Clove asked her, her voice dripping with fake sugary sweetness.

Enobaria sighed and moved further into the room. 'Something came for you.'

'Wonderful,' Clove said dryly. 'Just leave it with the rest of the presents from the various adoring fans and I'll get around to disposing of it, along with all the rest, later.'

'No. The deliverer was quite clear that it was important that you receive this directly,' Enobaria pressed, her temper flickering when she looked at her sullen charge.

Clove leant her head back in the chair. 'And what,' she asked wearily, 'is 'this', exactly?'

Enobaria produced a large cream box with a deep pink ribbon tied around it from behind the door. A card in a palm sized envelope was tucked under the ribbon. 'I don't know what's in it,' she said briskly. 'There's no label.'

'Put it down,' Clove instructed. Enobaria obeyed her gaze almost as surly as Clove's. 'You can leave now.'

With the grace of a block of ice shifting into the ocean, Enobaria Beauchamp moved back to the doorway, before turning to face Clove again. 'You know, Clove, you can only push people so far,' she warned. 'Sooner or later, they'll start pushing back.'

'I know,' Clove replied, her voice steely. 'However, I intend on pushing as much as I can…' she paused and flicked her gaze up to Enobaria. 'And then waiting to see if they have the strength to push back.'

Enobaria held Clove's stare for a few more seconds then her hand felt for the door handle and she was gone. Clove imagined her retreating figure down the corridor and let her lip curl up into a sneer, before grabbing the box from the small table in front of her and ripping the card from the top. With fumbling fingers, she tore the paper from the envelope and scanned it.

_ 'Dear Snow White (or Miss Anderson, should you prefer),_

_ We never managed to get fully acquainted the other night. A shame, really. You would have thought a friendship formed with a knife at a throat would have been a strong one, maybe even a lifelong one. Although, now I think of it, had you pressed the knife a little harder, it might have been a very short friendship.' _Here, Clove paused to roll her eyes.

_ 'Nonetheless,' the letter continued, 'I am a firm believer in fate. There was a reason we met that day in the rose gardens and I believe we were destined to be friends, good friends. Do you recall me telling you about my orchards, back at my home in the country? Perhaps you would consent to coming back with me when I go in the fall, for a week or so? Or even to joining me for dinner one night this week? The address of my hotel is at the back of the paper. Of course, you know who to ask for._

_ Your affectionate friend, Cato Maxwell.'_

Underneath his signature was the crest of the Maxwell corporation and their motto in gold: 'Only the best'. Clove wrinkled up her nose and put the letter back down on the table and picked up the box. She untied the pink ribbon and slowly wound it back up around her hands until it was tucked up neatly in her palm. She pulled off the lid of the box and pushed back the leaves of tissue paper to reveal rows upon rows of roses. Perfect, shiny, red roses.

Frowning, Clove rose from her chair and carried the box over to the window, to see them better. She lifted one rose out of the neat rows. It was surprisingly heavy in her hand and cold and smooth to the touch. Clove brought it up to her nose and sniffed. Tentatively, she bit into one of the petals then jerked away in surprise. Inside the rose's red crust was chocolate.

Chocolate. Clove almost laughed. He'd sent her chocolate roses. And a glorified invitation to be his prostitute for the summer. Cato Maxwell certainly had a way with women.

She rolled the chocolate over in her mouth pensively. Milk chocolate, she thought absently. Suddenly her expression turned sour and she swallowed the still melting lump. She preferred her chocolate bitter.

Reaching up, Clove unhooked the latch on the window and pushed it open, so it swung out into the open air. With one arm, she flung the box out of the window. Down below her, the dozen Beauchamp gardeners looked up to the sky in amazement as all around them roses fell from the sky.

* * *

Cato couldn't sleep. Everything was wrong. The sheets were too cold, the room was too hot. His pillow was too hard, the clock ticked too loud. He tossed and turned continually, and with each became even more frustrated both with his own incompetence to sleep and whatever idiot chose the damn pillows for this godforsaken hotel.

He saw her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a different part of her painted onto his eyelids that flickered and changed with ever blink. The images changed like the shutter on a camera, with a whir and click each time.

_Snap._

The curl of her hair brushed up against the bare skin on his neck. It was the colour of the richest chestnuts that his father brought at Christmastime and his younger siblings fought over to find the best to hang over the fire. It fell through her fingers like silk as she brushed it back behind the gentle curve of her ear lobe, only to have it fall back where it had been.

_Snap._

He saw the glint of the silver knife catch in the moonlight like a new penny and he wondered for the umpteenth time if she polished it daily. Her ring finger held the handle of the blade cautiously against his throat and he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheeks.

_Fuck._

Frustrated, Cato flung back the covers and fumbled around in the dark for the bedside lamp.

'Orwell!' he called, squinting hard in the sudden bright light. 'Orwell!'

The old chauffeur came stumbling into the bedroom, hastily wrapped in a patchwork bedrobe, blinking blearily. 'Sir?' he muttered, sleepily.

'Dear God, Orwell, for my sake take fifty dollars from my wallet and go buy yourself a new bedrobe, for the love of God!'

Orwell blinked in surprise. 'Now, sir?'

'No, not now.' Cato groaned and stretched. 'Did my little present get through to Miss Anderson?' he asked his chauffeur/guardian/all-around-glorified-servant.

'Well, the carrier took his payment, so I can only assume…' Orwell blustered. It was too late to be discussing this for the elderly chauffeur.

'You can't be sure though,' Cato translated. 'In the morning, I want you to make sure she got it. And if she has a reply for me. Oh,' he added, 'and you might as well organize some flowers for her. A nice bouquet, summer flowers, you know the kind of thing.'

Orwell tried to supress a yawn. 'As you say, sir. Good night.'

'Night, Orwell.'

The chauffeur shuffled back into his room, shutting the door gently behind him. Cato swung his legs back into the bed and switched the light off again. Sighing, he rolled over onto his stomach, his hands clenched tight over his belly. Hopefully, he thought to himself, they'd supress the empty hold that had taken up residence in his gut and was refusing to let him go.

* * *

'Clove? _Clove_? **Clove**!'

Enobaria's voice shook the house to it's very foundations. Clove glanced up from her desk to watch a picture hanging from the study wall shake with the vibrations. Rolling her eyes, she slid her body to the side of the chair and flounced out to find her guardian and hopefully stop her from bringing the house down on top of them all.

'What is it now?' she sighed, opening the front door. 'I was just…' her voice trailed off as she took in the sight on their porch.

Enobaria Beauchamp stood, her hands crossed firmly over her chest, glaring down at the poor young delivery boy, who was standing nervously at the bottom of the marble stairs, his eyes stuck firmly on his polished shoes. Next to him was the most elaborate bouquet Clove had ever seen. It was large, so big the boy had had to put it down to ring the doorbell, and as he bent down to pick it up again the stems scratched at his cheeks, they were so long. The flowers the bouquet were made of were in full bloom; summer flowers, pinks and oranges and sky blues all mingling together with their various scents and petals to create the most spectacular display of colour.

_At least there's no roses_, was all Clove could think. 'What's this?' she managed to say, trying to sound as in control as she could.

'This young gentleman says that this is for you,' Enobaria said briskly. 'And that he has a message from you from a young man named Maxwell.' She narrowed her eyes at her ward. 'Clove, who is this and why is he sending you flowers and messages?'

Clove struggled for the words. 'Nobody,' she said. Well, that was an obvious lie. Clearly, Cato Maxwell was someone.

The boy at the bottom of the steps cleared his throat. 'Uh, ma'am, I do have other deliveries today,' he said hesitantly. 'I sorta need to get this one done.'

'In a minute!' Enobaria hissed. The boy shrank back against his collar. If Clove hadn't still been slightly in shock, she might have smirked at his fright.

'Look,' she managed, 'let me hear the message and send him on his way. Then,' she bargained, when Enobaria began to protest, 'I'll come and explain everything. I promise.' The words tasted bitter in her mouth and she almost had to spit them out.

Enobaria Beauchamp pursed her thin lips as her eagle eyes scanned the scene in front of her, taking it in and summing it up. Clove stood her ground. She thought the delivery boy was going to faint. Finally, Enobaria sighed and turned back to the house, her skirts swishing around her. 'Five minutes, no more,' she called as she stalked back down the hall.

'I'll be there.' Clove tried not to let it sound like a threat, but failed.

'Ma'am,' the boy tipped his head respectfully. Once she was satisfied Enobaria had gone far enough that she wasn't going to listen in, Clove hurried down the house steps to the boy.

'Why has he sent me these?' she hissed to him.

'I-I'm not sure, miss,' the boy stammered. 'I was asked if the chocolates had been delivered and when I said they had, Mr Maxwell ordered these…' he held the bouquet out, '…for you.'

Clove lashed out her hand, smacking the bouquet to the floor. The boy watched it go, horror-stricken. 'Now, you listen to me,' Clove demanded, taking the final step so that she was nose to nose with the boy. 'You will take the flowers back to Mr Maxwell.' She spat out the name as if they burned. 'You will tell him that if I receive any other gifts from him they will be treated in the same way and that no amount of chocolates or flowers is going to make me change my mind. And,' reaching down to her pocket, she flicked out her knife again and toyed with it under the boy's neck, much to his horror, 'you will tell him that if I ever see him again, our meeting will not be anywhere near as friendly as our last.' She pulled the knife away and smiled sweetly and the petrified delivery boy. 'Understood?'

That evening, the boy handed in his resignation.


	4. Chapter 4

_Okay so I would have uploaded this last night but my internet went out (for the second night in a row but I won't go into that) so it's a little late but, hey, better late than never! I really hope you all will enjoy this chapter, I'm pretty sure you will but maybe let me know whether you loved it or hated it or somewhere in between? Thank you, thank you for all the amazing reviews you've left me! They really make me want to write more of this for you guys. Happy reading!_

_Love, Isabelle xx _

* * *

The girl kissed him lightly on the lips and giggled as she slid her hand down his shirt, her fingers tickling at his freezing cold skin. She began to deftly undo the buttons on the shirt, her nimble fingers making their way down his body. He shifted awkwardly and arched his back away from her, uncomfortable under her touch.

'Oh, come on,' she purred at him, her breath prickling on the skin of his neck as she nuzzled her chin into his collar. 'What's the matter? I heard from all the other girls that you were fun…' She giggled again and wrapped her arms up around his neck and pressed her mouth against his again, moving his hands onto her skin, trying to urge him into lifting her dress off her hips and taking her into bed.

Cato shrugged away from her angrily, separating their lips with a wet sucking sound. He ripped his hands away from her, the dress remaining stubbornly on the girl's body. She huffed and detached her limbs from his, heaving herself off of him.

'If you didn't want to fuck a whore,' she snapped. 'Maybe you shouldn't have come to a whore house, rich boy.' Grabbing a throw from a chair, she stormed out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Left behind in the armchair they had been sprawled on, Cato lifted himself up onto one elbow and groaned. All over his body, he itched, like he was dirty, filthy, even. He looked around him in dismay. The room itself was fairly clean, that wasn't what was making him feel dirty. The bed in the corner had clean sheets and blankets. There was no dust on the mantelpiece and the bottles of perfume and scented candles and oils on the shelves were shining. No, the room didn't make him feel dirty. The reason why he was there was what was making him feel dirty.

'Fuck,' he said aloud, then louder. 'FUCK.' He jumped up and turned, kicking the chair over as he did so. It smashed into the wall, sending plaster tumbling down into Cato's hair. 'FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!' he screamed, lashing out at whatever he could. His strong arms smashed the perfume bottles and sent the candles crashing to the floor. He gave the cabinet by the bed a huge shove and it fell, the glass of the doors smashing as it did. Furiously, Cato pulled the covers off the beds and threw them out of the window. The sheets untangled mid-air, then drifted, slowly, down to the street below where it settled half on a hedge and half on the pavement, like a thin layer of snow in the depths of winter.

Unsurprisingly, he was asked to leave and never, ever come back.

* * *

On the way back to the hotel, Cato was unusually silent. This made Orwell unnecessarily nervous and he found himself jumping at every screech of a car tyre and every blare of a horn, which, on the bustling Manhattan roads, meant he was jumping a lot.

'Watch out!' Cato snapped, as Orwell grabbed back a hold of the stirring wheel after losing his grasp as he turned around a sharp bend. The resounding bark of a motorcar horn followed them as they went. 'Are you trying to kill me or what?'

'Sorry, sir.'

'Yes, well, you will be,' Cato said, his voice tinged with malice. Orwell swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the wheel. Defeated, Cato slumped back into his seat and watched the streets rush by him so fast they blurred together to become one long brushstroke of colour flowing endlessly by his eyes.

He couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. It had been nigh on two weeks since he'd felt right, two weeks since the night he'd met Clove Anderson in that damn rose garden. Low in his belly there was an ache, an ache that could not be soothed with any medicine or ointment he'd tried. No matter how much he ate or drank or fucked other women, he still felt cruelly empty. And it was driving him slowly insane.

It had been a week since the flowers he sent to Clove had been returned to him after she'd rejected them along with a hastily scribbled message from the delivery boy, who'd since quit his job and moved to Texas, telling him that if he was sensible, he'd never send that girl flowers ever again. Naturally, that only made Cato want to send her more.

He sent her flowers. He sent her chocolates. Hell, he had sent her so much shit that week the postal service must have thought he was some crazy stalker or, even worse, a desperate lover. But he never received anything back from her and three days ago he'd stopped trying. Three days ago, the ache had gotten worse.

The sun was just starting to think about setting when Orwell pulled up outside the hotel. It was still stifling hot and Cato was half tempted to strip right there and go jump in the hotel pool and try to forget about the ache that was holding his gut captive. But he couldn't. He had a mission to assign.

'Orwell, what are your plans for this evening?' he asked the chauffeur casually, hopping out of the motorcar.

'I have none as yet,' Orwell replied, cautiously. But he knew his young master well and there was a hungry look in Cato's eyes that unsettled even the old chauffeur's stomach. 'I take it you have some for me, sir?'

Cato nodded, thoughtfully. 'Yes. Yes, I do,' he said, leaning over into the driver's window. 'Orwell, my good friend, I want you to find out everything you can about a young actress who tends to go by the name of Snow White…'

* * *

'Aaaaaaaaand, cut!'

The trill of the bell released Clove from the trance she'd been stuck in for the past fifteen minutes. As the world around her crumbled down to become a crusty old film set instead of the beautiful, majestic medieval Venice she'd seen in her mind, she felt her heart sink with a feeling that felt vaguely like disappointment.

Suddenly, she saw the cameras and the directors and producers sitting in their fold up chairs, megaphones at their sides, already turning towards one another to tear apart her performance. She saw the stage hands and the lighting engineers trooping across the stage, their underpants showing under their low slung trousers; she saw the wardrobe and make-up artists waiting anxiously in the wings to touch up her blush or lipstick. Most of all, she saw her co-star, standing awkwardly next to her in his ridiculous tights and boots, his blonde hair flopping into his eyes and his freckles badly covered with thick, sticky make-up. She hated them all.

'So, doing anything this afternoon, beautiful?' Clove looked her co-star (she didn't know his name; didn't know, didn't care) up and down and tried not to gag. How on earth this boy landed the role of Romeo was beyond her completely, he was still stuck in the greasy in-between stage of boy and man, eying her up with eager, hungry eyes. He disgusted her. 'You know, my dressing room is always open, if you fancy any company…' He reached out and took hold of her hand.

'Don't touch me,' Clove interrupted, instantly retracting her hand from his clammy grasp and spinning on her heel to make her escape. She stalked away from him and across the set, dodging various stage hands carrying pieces of props, towards her own dressing room.

Stupid boy, she thought to herself, wiping away his sweaty grip on her long, flowing skirt. Stupid, disgusting boy. Stupid, disgusting and…utterly besotted. At this, at least, she allowed herself a secret smile as she swished her skirt.

As she turned the corner, however, her smile was immediately swiped from her face.

_No. No, it can't be him. Not here._

And yet it was.

Leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hands in his pockets, was the boy from the party, the boy who'd sent her chocolate roses and flower arrangements and offers to be his whore. Cato Maxwell. Now that they weren't cloaked in darkness, she was able to see him pretty well. He was attractive, she was shocked to notice; tall, blonde and tanned, with high cheekbones and muscular limbs, and well-dressed to boot. When his eyes flicked up to see her standing, staring, she saw that they were a clear, ice cold blue.

'I was waiting for you,' he announced, pushing off the wall to stand up straight.

'So I can see,' Clove replied, crossing her arms across her chest, as if they could hide how hard her heart was hammering. 'And is there any particular reason why you've taken it upon yourself to become my own personal stalker?'

'You interest me,' he said simply. Clove blinked, slightly stunned. She hadn't expected him to even reply.

'So,' he continued, 'not Snow White anymore.' He nodded to the sign on the wall: _Romeo and Juliet_. 'Now, you're Juliet.'

'Rosaline, actually,' she corrected him.

'Who?' Cato Maxwell frowned.

Clove tried to conceal a thrill of delight at knowing something he didn't. It gave her some sort of power over him, and right now she was desperate for that. 'She was who Romeo was originally in love with before he saw Juliet,' she explained. 'Romeo was at the Capulet's party to see her in the first place.' She uncrossed her arms. 'She was the first love.'

'Ah.' Cato's brow was creased as he tried to connect the dots. Clove tried to tear her eyes away from his face but failed miserably. 'So, the movie…'

'..Follows the story from her point of view,' she finished for him.

'Does it say what happened to her after they died?'

'No,' she said, surprised at the interest he was showing. Usually boys like him didn't talk women in literature with girls like her.

'Why not?'

She shrugged. 'When Romeo and Juliet die, that the end. No one cares after that anymore.'

He looked down at her. 'I do.'

Clove met his gaze, then lowered her eyes. 'Yeah, well, too bad.'

'What do you think happens to her?' Cato took a step towards her. 'You know, after they die?' His fingers rubbed at his pocket edge.

Matching his step, Clove found herself within breathing distance of his chest. 'I don't know,' she whispered.

'What do you think happened to her?' he repeated softly.

'I think she never let herself love again,' she muttered. Clove could see his heart beat through his shirt.

'And why do you think that?' he murmured, reaching up to gently stroke the tops of her arms, sending goose bumps shivering down her skin.

'Because she knew that love was dangerous.'

He raised an eyebrow at her. 'Is it?'

And then he was kissing her.

* * *

Her body reacted to him in ways he couldn't have dreamed of.

Her chest heaved and then she was breathing with him, in him, perfectly in sync. He could feel her lips wetting and her hands reaching up to touch him. He let her wrap her hands behind his neck, pulling herself even closer to him than before. The way her body fit into his amazed him; it was like they were two lost jigsaw pieces finally fitting together.

She pulled away with a shuddering sigh and he wanted to pull her back again. Almost gently, he kissed her top lip, then her bottom. Almost hungrily, she latched back on and a delicious shudder flooded him as he kissed her deeper than he'd ever kissed anyone before. She consumed him, she became him. They were one.

'So,' she whispered, her breath tickling his neck. 'Am I better?'

He chuckled. 'Better than who, exactly?'

Her tone was sharp and sweet and cut through him like a knife in butter. 'Better than all the other whores you've kissed before?'

She was unlike anyone he'd ever met. She was beautiful, but that wasn't where it stopped. She was smart, she was lethal, she carried a goddam knife in her waistband. She pinned him to a tree with one arm, she left parties at the first strike of midnight. She could be a princess who bit into an apple and died but she could also be the girl who was betrayed by love. She was snarky and rude and kissed him like a madwoman. She was him. And he was her.

'Oh yes,' he breathed, lifting her up so her legs in their long, silky skirt were latched around him and her eyes were level with his. 'Oh yes, you're so much better.'

'You bastard.'

'You bitch.'

Her laugh was a stamp on the side of his neck, imprinting herself on him like a brand.

In that one moment, for the first time since he could remember, Cato felt unmistakably whole.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello again, everyone! Sorry for being late again but you've all been very patient and I can only hope that you're still willing to read this story. It's a bit of a shorter chapter this time, so sorry again, but hey! It's a chapter I'm very happy with and I hope that you are too. Many thanks to everyone who's left me a lovely review or favourited the story (or even me!). Maybe you'll leave me another? ;)_

_Love, Isabelle xxx_

* * *

_Late August 1929_

Outside the hotel window, the leaves in the trees below caught in the cool wind that was blowing in from the sea. It was the chill of the night breeze which brought forth promises of the autumnal weather that was moving swiftly on it's way to New York City.

Through the open window came the sounds which told of the parties that were still buzzing, as they always were. Lying back on the soft pillow, Clove watched the light drapes drift slowly in the wind, bringing in with them the distinctive smells of the city at night: the heavy musk of women's perfume, the dizzy sweetness of liquor and the unmistakable stench of love.

She smelt of it too, Clove decided, stretching out her toes on the wide open bed, revelling in the weight of the hand that had fallen on her stomach and the warm arm that secured the back of her head. She reeked of love.

Sighing heavily, more with pleasure than anything else, she pushed the sheets back using only one leg, meaning to go to the corridor and find some water. The cool blast of air hit her body making her shiver and goosebumps began to freckle her smooth, milky skin. Ignoring them, she swung her legs around the edge of the bed and heaved herself off from the pillow, then yelped as the arm that had been lying by her body suddenly grabbed her by the waist.

'Where do you think you're going?' Cato grunted, drawing her back to him with minimal effort and turning her to face him while he still lay on his own pillow..

'To get a drink,' she replied, placing her hands on his chest to maintain some distance from him. In the half light of the early hours of the morning, he was bright-eyed, sweat glistening lightly on his bare chest. She wanted to kiss him again, as she had for what had felt to her to be for hours.

'Lie back again,' he commanded. 'Lie back and I'll get someone to bring you a drink. A dozen drinks, if you want them.'

'And what shall I drink?' she teased, still not lying down. 'The ambrosia of the gods?'

'If you want it,' he whispered, 'I'll bring it down from Heaven just for you.' Tilting her head down, he kissed her, and finally, Clove let him pull her back down on top of him.

* * *

For several weeks now, they had both been trapped in the deadly web of desire. For the two of them, there had only been one thing they thought of, moved for, breathed for.

Each other.

They were careful. Of course, they had to be. Clove was expected on set daily and Cato was expected to be out, living the life his peers were: drinking, dancing and womanizing. They met in secret, sneaking about like cats down a dark alley. Whenever possible, they were together. After filming, Clove would make an excuse to stay behind on set and Cato would join her. Being with him on the very set she had once loathed being on gave Clove a thrill she could not explain to anyone. He liked to take off her costume himself, unlacing the bodice and twisting away the long skirt greedily.

Once or twice, they had managed to spend the night together in Cato's hotel. Only a few though, since getting there too meticulous planning. Clove had smoothly lied to the Beauchamps and made them think she was at an all-night party in Brooklyn. Enobaria, thrilled that her ward was finally socializing as she should be, asked no more questions. Those nights were like military operations, with every minute counting. Clove would rise from Cato's bed at four in the morning and the old chauffeur would drive her all the way to the venue of the party where she could show her face for an hour or so before being collected by the Beauchamps driver. When questioned on her evening, Clove was able to let lie after pretty lie drip from her tongue, sweet as sugar.

These days, lying was becoming a second nature to them both. But, with each lie, they spun another thread of silk into their web and, as everyone knows, the stronger the web, the harder it is to break out of it when the time comes.

* * *

'I have something to tell you,' Cato murmured. He was lying on his back, one hand behind his head and the other teasing it's way through Clove's thick hair as she lay beside him, her head on her chest.

'Wait, don't tell me.' She paused only for a heartbeat. 'You're really a prince of some little known European country and you want to whisk me away from here to become your queen.'

He laughed aloud. 'How did you guess?'

'I'm a good guesser.'

'Well, this time you guessed wrong.' He laced his fingers around one strand of her hair. 'My father's coming to town.'

'Aaaaand that affects me how?'

He glanced down at her. 'Well, he'll want me to dine with him. See him, his clients. Be his son.'

'Still waiting for how this involves me.'

'I won't be able to see you,' he admitted. 'Not before he's gone.'

'What?' She wrenched herself away from his side and pushed herself up onto all fours, so she towered over him. Her hair, mussed by his fingers and fractured sleep, tumbled down over her shoulders. 'Why not?'

Cato winced and tried to drag himself into more of a sitting position. 'It's just…I can't…'

'Can't what?' Her tone cut deeper and harder than any of her knives.

'I can't explain you.'

Clove's expression was thunderous. 'What do you mean, you can't explain me?' she snarled. 'I'm a person, not a mathematical theorem, in case you had failed to recognise. What is there to explain?'

Cato's temper flared fast. 'Oh yes, of course, you're right!' he declared sarcastically. 'I can just introduce you to him: 'hello, Father, nice to see you. Meet my beautiful new whore, who I picked up outside a film-set and fucked in my hotel room with your chauffeur in the room next door'. Oh yes, he'd utterly love that!'

She slapped him clean across the face.

'I'm _not_ your whore,' she hissed at him, her eyes flashing dangerously in the moonlight.

'Well, you're certainly no lily-white virgin either.' He sneered up at her. 'I've made sure of that many times.'

This time, he caught her wrist mid-swing and threw her to the side. She pulled him with her and he ended up crouching over her, pinning her to the bed with one arm.

'Gotcha,' he whispered to her.

Furiously, Clove kicked up, catching him hard at the lower part of his chest. Momentarily winded, Cato gasped and his grip on her slackened, just enough for her to twist him around so he landed heavily on his back. Effortlessly, she lifted herself with him so that when he landed she was straddled on top of him, her long legs tucked into his side, her pearly nails digging into the skin of his chest and her breathing now so rapid he could see her chest heaving beneath the thin material of her nightgown.

'Gotcha,' she breathed, her face suddenly alight.

'Bitch.'

'Bastard.'

_God, I want her._

'I want to kiss you,' he told her, licking his lips.

'I don't want to be kept a secret,' she bit back. 'But we don't always get what we want now, do we?'

She was blackmailing him, goddamn her, blackmailing as only a young woman can. 'Look, what do you want me to do, exactly?' he said, frustration gripping at his gut. 'My father's not exactly the type of man to just accept this.'

'What kind of man is he then?'

'The kind that, if he could, would have betrothed me to one of his client's daughters when I was ten and insisted I court her, kiss her, wed her and then bed her.' He paused. 'In that order.'

'So, he won't like it that we fucked?' Clove's eyes were sparking with glee.

'No,' he admitted.

'So don't tell him. God, are you that stupid?' She laughed her pretty little laugh and leant back down closer to his face again. 'He doesn't have to know about us. Just tell him we're friends or,' she held up her fingers in quotation marks, '"Courting". No one but us needs to know about the fucking part.' She tossed her hair back. 'When are you going to see him?'

'Tomorrow morning. He stays until next Sunday.'

'That's not long.' She shrugged, an effortless gesture that made his mouth water. '

She was right. Of course she was right, she was always fucking right. But that was what he loved about her.

'I love you,' he murmured without thinking, reaching up to find her hands and hold them in his own.

She froze under his touch. 'You do?'

'Yes.' The words had felt unfamiliar on his tongue as he spoke them for the first time, but now he had said them he wanted to taste them again. Like he wanted to taste her again. 'Yes. I love you. I love you and I want to court you, kiss you, marry you and fuck you.' He paused again, before giving her a mischievous grin. 'Just not in that order.'

'Bastard.'

'Bitch.'

Once he had her back in his arms and she was kissing him as hungrily as if she were a wolf, Cato found that it was almost possible for him to completely forget that his father was coming to see him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Wow, so two chapters in less than a week? What is this? No, actually, I had this chapter kind of planned out since I started this story so once I started it just kind of wrote itself. Anyway, I'm back to school on Wednesday (no) so updates here might be a little slower than normal but I am intent on finishing it for you all. Again, thank you so so much for all your lovely reviews and favourites; they mean the world to me. Hopefully you might leave another review after this chapter?_

_Love, Isabelle xx_

* * *

Andrew Maxwell worked on Wall Street, but he was not your typical banker who had wild dreams of going further. No, having built up his business, 'Maxwell Corporation' from the age of eighteen to become an internationally renowned company, Maxwell was a name to be reckoned with. Andrew was a formidable man, feared by his employees, admired by his clients and watched warily by his many competitors. His ruthless profession and regimented childhood had made him cold and aloof and, since the death of his first wife when his son was four, horribly distant from his family.

The office that he owned was a corner block at the end of Wall Street, painted white with shining windows and fresh smelling carpets. Above the mail slot was a sleek mahogany tile with 'Maxwell Corporation' etched into it in gold and the telephone number for Andrew's own personal telephone.

'Only the best', promised their motto and for Andrew Maxwell, that promise carried further than just his office. It was what he expected from his staff, his wife, his children and, most importantly, from the rest of the world.

* * *

Cato stood outside his father's office, looking up at the huge white building. It was still hot, too hot to take the car, so he had walked from the hotel all the way down to Wall Street. It had taken him a while and he could feel his white shirt sticking to the small of his back uncomfortably. He twitched, trying to dislodge it, but the fabric just clung tighter to his body.

_Stop it_, he told himself fiercely. _Stop being so pathetic. You're not a little boy anymore. He can't hurt you. _

Yes he can, a nasty little voice whispered at the back of his mind, but Cato pushed it away. Taking a deep breath, he started for the deep red door into the office. Inside, the main hall was also mostly red: from the thick carpet on the polished oak floor to the red flowers in the glass vase on the receptionist's desk. Purposefully, he strode over to her and cleared his throat. She looked up at him. In another time, another world, he would have thought her pretty. She was petite, with soft blonde waves just brushing her shoulders and enchanting green eyes.

'Yes?' she asked him, putting down her pen.

'I'm here to see my father,' Cato told her, producing a Maxwell card from the back pocket of his trousers.

The girl took it and squinted at the card. Cato noticed a pair of plain black spectacles on top of the filing cabinet behind her and had to hide a smirk. Vanity was a marvellous thing. 'Oh,' she breathed once she'd deciphered the writing on the card. 'You're Mr Maxwell's son?'

'That's me,' he replied, giving her his most charming smile (which she probably couldn't see). 'Which way to his office?'

'Take the stairs, it's the third door on the right,' she gushed, her eyes now bright. Cato smiled down at her while trying to prise the card back out of her fingers. She had quite the iron grip.

He took the stairs two at a time, his heart thudding with the beat of his footsteps on the wood of the floors. It wasn't hard finding his father's office, seeing as it had his name in the same gold etching on the same mahogany tile as was outside the office. Cato allowed himself a moment to breathe in through his nose and out again before knocking on the door.

'Enter.'

_Breathe. Remember._

He pushed the door open and entered his father's office. Closing the door behind him, Cato turned to face his father. Andrew Maxwell was sitting behind a vast teak desk which almost spanned the whole width of the room, his head bent over some papers. Sensing that his father was unaware of his presence, Cato cleared his throat.

Andrew Maxwell looked up. 'Cato,' he said, slightly surprised.

'Hey, Dad.'

'I wasn't expecting you this early.'

Cato shrugged and held out his arms. 'You asked to see me. Here I am.'

His father peered at his eldest son over his glasses and frowned. 'Yes. Yes, I suppose so.' He sighed, and gestured to a chair. 'Well, you might as well sit down.' He ducked his head again and returned to his papers.

'Most kind of you,' Cato muttered, half under his breath. Grabbing one of the plush velvet backed chairs that were lined up under the window, he draw it up to his father's desk and sat there, waiting. Andrew Maxwell was still intent on finishing his work. Frustration flickering in his stomach, Cato turned his attention out of the window, to the New York skyline. Clove was out there somewhere, he thought. Already he was counting the seconds before he could be with her again.

'So,' Andrew suddenly said, dropping his pen and giving Cato the weakest of smiles. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine.'

'How's your summer been? Anything happened?'

_ I met a girl who I have fallen head over heels in love with and I think she's the one I want to spend the rest of my life with._

He shrugged again. 'Fine.' A pause. 'How are the kids?'

After Cato's mother had died, Andrew had remarried, to a young woman from LA. Together they had two young children, a boy called Thomas and a little girl called Connie. Although Cato had never really gotten on with his step-mother, who he thought was fanciful and stupid; he did have a certain affection for his two little half-siblings. It had been he who had taught Tom to ride his slightly-too-big bicycle and he who lifted Connie down after she followed her intrepid brother into the trees at the bottom of their vast garden.

'Hmm? Oh, fine, I should think. Yes. Fine.'

'Did Connie have a good birthday?' Cato pressed. She'd turned eight two weeks before and he'd spent hours trawling the girls section of a dress store in Manhattan looking for the perfect gift. With the help of about a dozen assistants, all eager to help him, he'd eventually purchased a pretty blue dress with a delicate lace hemming and a silk sash and watched it be boxed up with layers of scented tissue paper and then had sent them off that evening. 'Did she get my gift?'

'What?' Oh, yes, yes. I should think so. Yes.'

_He doesn't know_, Cato realised. _He doesn't know if his daughter had a good birthday_.

'Were you there?' he pressed.

'Was I… Oh, well, no. No, I was away on that day.'

'You weren't at your own daughter's birthday?' The frustration turned to anger, flooding through Cato's body, fusing his limbs.

'I sent a gift,' Andrew replied crisply. 'A puppy, a sweet little Charles Cavalier. She's always wanted one.'

'You sent her a _dog_ to substitute for not being there yourself?'

'Let's not forget,' Andrew snapped, 'that you were not there either. You were here, enjoying yourself, going to ridiculous parties and drinking all my money!' He slammed a sheet of paper down on the table in front of Cato.

Cato glanced down, his leg jiggling in agitation. 'What's this?'

'I don't know,' his father said sharply. 'You tell me.'

The paper was almost glossy, which told Cato that it was something formal. Black ink laced the page in numbers and characters that Cato had to lean closer to see. Heart thumping, he scanned the lists. It was a receipt, he realised, a receipt that chronicled everything he had ordered to be delivered to Clove's house. He felt cold all over, then a flush of heat rushed down his spine.

'What the hell have you been doing?' Andrew coolly asked his son. 'What is this?'

Swallowing hard, Cato tried his best to look uncaring. 'I sent a few gifts,' he said breezily, leaning back. 'Nothing big. Nothing to worry about.'

'Oh no?' His father picked up the receipt and scanned it. 'That's a lot of gifts for just one girl. Did you like her?' Cato kept silent. 'Well, you must have done, if you kept her longer than all the other prostitutes you've fucked this summer.' _How the hell did he know about that?_

Cato's heart was hammering against his shirt as he fought to keep calm. _He can't hurt you anymore. Remember. Breathe. _

'Who is she?' Andrew Maxwell asked. 'Some little gutter rat?'

'Her name is Clove,' Cato finally bit back, furiously. 'Clove Anderson.'

His father's head snapped up so fast Cato was surprised he hadn't broken his neck while doing it. 'What?'

'Clove Anderson,' Cato repeated, revelling in the sound of her name. 'She's an actress. She was in 'Snow White', which came out this summer. I love her. She loves me. I'm going to marry her.'

Andrew Maxwell regarded his son carefully. His cold eyes passed from Cato's own sea-blue ones to the way his fist had balled up in fury. 'Not anymore you're not,' he said quietly.

It took all Cato's strength not to hit his own father. 'What did you say?' he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

'I said you're not marrying her. I don't want you seeing her again.'

'Why?' Cato could feel the cold fury building up inside his chest.

'I don't want this family to be associated with actors of any sort,' his father said nastily. 'I'm ashamed of you, Cato. You stay away from her.'

'You can't fucking make me!' Cato yelled, leaping up from his chair and throwing it to the side. The chair fell perilously close the to the glass panes of the window. 'Do you hear me?'

'Yes, I hear you!' Andrew shouted back, standing up suddenly so he was level with his son's face. 'But I am your father and you will hear me! I don't want you anywhere near that girl! Stay away from her. Go back to your whores.'

'Fuck you,' Cato said breathlessly. 'I won't.'

'You will,' his father replied fluidly. 'Or I'll make sure you never see Tom or Connie again.'

Cato's breath was sucked out of his lungs. 'You can't,' he said.

'Of course I can. I'm their father just as much as yours and I'm sure Emmeline would be only too obliging to make sure you're kept from her children.'

He was blackmailing him too. Cato wanted to laugh. Cato wanted to scream.

'You can't make me choose.'

Andrew spread his arms. 'Why, I believe I am.' He sat down again and picked up his fountain pen to begin marking the papers again. 'I am here until the end of the week. You have until then to make your choice.' He bowed his head and Cato was left standing in the middle of the office with an upturned chair and an impossible decision to make.

Cato turned to the door and pulled it open. 'I hate you,' he said, and deep inside him, Cato knew that he meant what he said. Andrew Maxwell looked up and held his sons gaze for a moment.

Then Cato grabbed the door handle and pulled it behind him, slamming the door with such force he hoped the books on the case behind his father had tumbled down. Still, just in case they hadn't, he pushed the vase of red flowers off the near sighted receptionist's desk on his way out.

Just for good measure.

* * *

'He's going to take you away from me.'

'Like hell he is.'

'He's going to take you away.'

He'd been telling her that for what felt like hours and Clove was desperate to take the pain away from him, to make him feel better. She'd kissed him. She'd held him. She'd let his fingers leave marks on her skin just so he could feel she was his. She'd loved him. Now, lying in the soft curve of his body, his head on top of hers, her hands holding his around her waist, she was fairly sure the reason she could no longer hear his heart beat on her back was because his heart was broken.

'He's going to take you away from me.'

'Stop it,' she hissed, squeezing his hands tighter. 'Stop saying that. Of course he's not. No one can ever take me away from you. Ever.'

'Then he'll take them away.' His fingers were cold. 'He'll take them away from me.'

'No.' She twisted in his arms so she could see his face. 'No, I won't let that happen.'

'What are you planning on doing about it?' he whispered, pulling her up so they were nose to nose. 'What are you going to do?'

'We've been careful,' Clove said thickly, tracing her finger down his bare chest. 'But now we'll have to be even more careful.'

'Do you have a plan?'

'Not yet,' she admitted. 'But I will soon.'

'Sure about that?'

'Yes, surer than I've ever been about anything ever,' she said fiercely. 'You're not losing anyone, I promise.'

'Swear it?' he whispered, his eyes boring into her skin.

'I swear it,' she repeated.

'Swear it on your life?'

'Don't fucking push it.'

Then they were kissing again and Clove fell into his hold as easily as she had fallen in love with him. When she was with Cato, nothing else bothered her, nothing else mattered. Forget not losing her. Right now, there was nothing she could bear less than losing him.

'He's going to take you away from me.'

'Like hell he is,' Cato whispered back to her.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi again, all! I hope your new school years got off to a good start and you're settling in well. So far Sixth Form is going well (touch wood) but it does unfortunately leave me less and less time to write for you all. However, and take this as you will, this little story is almost at it's close! I'm planning just two more chapters after this so enjoy it while you can ;) Hope you enjoy this (dramatic) chapter,_

_Love, Isabelle xx_

* * *

Autumn was closing in, faster in New York City than anyone could ever remember it doing before. Already the leaves on the trees in Central Park had begun to change to a rusty orange from the rich green and were floating softly to the ground, making a thin red carpet on the grass. The birds seemed to feel in their bones that they were in for a cold winter because for days now the sky had been dotted with sparrows and bluebirds, spreading their wings and making for the warm, yellow heat of Africa while they still could. They could feel the winter closing in on them and had the sense to leave while they still could.

Standing outside the film studio, Clove tipped her head up to the sky and watched a flock of sparrows take flight from a tree and soar off into the blue of the sky and out over the ocean.

_ I wish I could do that_, she thought to herself.

It was the last day of August and the night before it had rained, the first rain of the summer. It had felt fitting, to Clove; that they have a first on a day of a last. She had been hopping over puddles on her way to work. It was a day full of lasts too; today could be her last day with Cato. Tomorrow, his father was returning to the country and was still intent on taking his son with him. For all they had said and done, neither she nor Cato had come up with a plan yet to stay together and it did indeed look like tonight might be their last night together.

_If I were a bird_, Clove thought, _I could fly away from this all._

But she wasn't a bird. So instead of flying, she turned and entered the studio.

'Clove, could I have a word?'

_No you can't._ The words were on the tip of her tongue and their taste was sickly sweet but Clove bit them back and swallowed them. Instead, she painted on a smile just as sweet and walked over to meet John, the director of the film.

'Is something wrong?' she asked, crossing her arms over the silken bodice of her dress. They had just finished rehearsals for the day and already the cast and crew were starting to drift off of the set and back to dressing rooms and prop cupboards to pack away for the day.

'There might be,' John admitted, fussing over the clipboard he was carrying.

'That's not a proper answer,' Clove snapped at him impatiently.

'And there's the problem.'

Clove hesitated. _What? What problem_? 'What do you mean?' she asked him, her tone cautious. 'What's the problem?'

'The problem, Clove…quite frankly…is you.'

Clove couldn't have been more shocked if John had told her they were switching roles and she was now playing Mercutio. It felt like she had been punched in the stomach and now she couldn't breathe. 'What?' she repeated, barely in a whisper.

'You are the problem,' John blustered. 'I'm afraid to say.'

'What do you mean?' Clove demanded, her cheeks flushing furiously. 'I'm the best actress in this whole project! I'm carrying this godforsaken film and you think I'm the problem?'

'Clove,' John said firmly. 'You've been late three times this week. We've lost about four hours of filming thanks to you. And then when you are here you're rude, you don't listen and your performance levels drop.' He sighed. 'If your attitude doesn't improve by the end of the week, I might have no choice but to ask you to leave the film.'

He might as well have slapped her around the face. 'Are you firing me?' she asked, cold fury shaking her voice.

'I hope it won't have to come to that,' John told her softly, his fingers fumbling over the papers. 'But if it does…then yes.'

Clove was speechless. How dare he? How dare _they_? Scanning the room, her eyes fell on the face of her cast mates, the crew, the producers…all watching her like she was some caged animal being prodded with a stick. For one fleeting moment, Clove felt like a bird. But not one as she had seen this morning, flying free. She was a bird trapped in a cage, a golden, bejewelled cage, but a cage even so. She hated them all, with a passion just as strong as she loved Cato. _Cato_, who she was losing today, maybe forever. Tears filled her eyes.

John took a deep breath and turned away from her, retreating back to the safe cluster of producers surrounding the actress playing Juliet. Clove remained standing, her fists clenched, where she was trying to absorb what she had just been told. Around her, the set began to ease back into routine as if nothing had happened. The boy playing Romeo had suddenly appeared at Clove's elbow, his satin tights clinging to his skin unflatteringly.

'Trouble in paradise, beautiful?' he asked, his clammy fingers finding her elbow.

Clove could feel herself grinding her teeth in frustration. I must not bite back, she thought. I am a bird in a cage. She flinched away from his touch with a shudder.

'Oh!' He sneered at her, moving his hand back to slither further along her arm and under her breasts. 'A little touchy today, are we?'

Clove snapped. She reached down and, clamping her fingers around his wrist, she twisted. The boy howled in pain but still Clove held on. She yanked his whole arm upwards and to the side, causing him to shriek even louder and start writhing to get away from her. Disgusted, she pushed and he fell, whimpering, to the floor and curled up, nursing his injured arm.

'Don't you ever touch me again.' Clove spoke quietly, but made sure that she could be heard. 'Don't you ever come near me again. Because if you do,' with this, she stepped forward, causing the petrified boy to scramble across the floor away from her, 'I will hurt you far worse. Do you understand?'

Oh, he understood her alright.

As Clove slowly started to breathe again, she became painstakingly aware that, once more, all eyes on the film set were on her. Looking up, she saw the horror in their faces, the disgust, the fear, even. _They're afraid of me_, she realised and there was a jab in her ribs, close to her heart. Was it better to be loved, or feared? she wondered. As she spun around, taking in the whole room, and saw John glare at her steadily over his goddamn clipboard, she knew the answer.

_I've broken out of my cage now_, she thought to herself, tears pricking at her eyes. _I am a bird and I am free of my gilded cage._

But, oh, how true it is that people come to love their chains.

By the time Cato arrived at the film set, it was dark. He shivered, pulling his coat closer to him and pushed open the side door that he had been using to sneak in for several weeks now. The door lead through to the long corridor of dressing rooms which further lead to a set of double doors onto the set. It had been in this corridor that he had first kissed Clove. Cato closed his eyes to let the memory flood his brain and his fingers tingling with longing to kiss her like that again.

'Clove?' he called, as loudly as he dared. All the other times he had arrived at the studio, they had been alone but you never knew when an unexpected producer or lighting technician might pop up. 'Clove? Where are you?'

When he received no answer, Cato began to panic. 'Clove?' he shouted, slightly louder. She wasn't in her dressing room, but if she had been she would have come out to meet him anyway. 'Clove?'

He pushed through the double doors and tumbled into the main set. It was almost pitch dark, except for one single bulb hanging from the vast ceiling. It cast an eerie glow over the various props and scenery pieces dotted around the room, making the place seem even more sinister than it did in the daylight. Cato stepped over a pile of silk dresses and around a fake castle turret and moved further into the room. Across the space from him, sitting with her back to the rest of the room on the edge of a large box, was a small figure, her back hunched.

'Clove?'

Her skin was freezing to touch but she wasn't shivering. He saw that her fingers were clenching the edges of the block fiercely, so tight her knuckles had turned white. When he moved in front of her to brush her hair off from her face, he saw that her eyes were glazed over in a frightening foggy haze.

'Hey.' He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips felt like ice. His heart started to thump in panic. 'Clove? Talk to me. What is it? What's wrong?'

'They sacked me,' she replied, her voice flat and monotone. 'I lost.'

'No.'

'Yes.' She reached up to brush her dry cheek. 'I just wanted to fly.'

He didn't understand her, but kissed her anyway. 'It doesn't matter,' he murmured. 'Shhh, it's alright. I'm here.' He drew her cold body close to his and held her, burying her face in his shoulder. 'I'll help you fly if that's what you want.'

She latched onto him, in the way she had that made his heart jump and his limbs automatically leapt to hold her, to join with her. He pulled her up to fit against him and her arms clutched around his neck hungrily as she reached up to kiss him.

_Enjoy this kiss_, an evil voice whispered in the back of his mind. Enjoy her. _You might never have her again._

_Shut up_, Cato silenced it angrily.

Clove's fingers dug into his shirt and he felt them shaking. Desperate to make her feel better, he ran his arms around her waist and began to sway slightly, dipping down to lock her in a long, unending kiss. She whimpered, but slowly, ever so slowly, she was thawing into his arms and melting into him. He should treasure this, Cato thought to himself, and yet even so he found himself being greedy. I want her again. I want her forever.

His forever was not to last for long, though.

'I love you,' he murmured into her ear.

'Say it again.'

'I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.'

'I know,' she sighed contentedly and rewarded him with another, deep, kiss. Right inside him, something gave way.

Suddenly, from behind them, there was a click. Cato froze, as did Clove, locked together, their arms interlinking. Straining his eyes in the half light, Cato could just make out a shadow flickering on the furthest wall and footsteps clicking on the hard wood of the floor. He tried to breathe as quietly as he could, holding Clove tightly.

'Who's there?' she breathed, just soft enough for only him to hear.

'I can't see,' he whispered in reply. She shuddered against his chest and he pulled her away from his front. She stuck stubbornly to his side, though.

The shadow was making its way across the room and, to Cato's alarm, towards them. Fuck, it must be Orwell. God fucking damn that old chauffeur, with his big nose always pushing its way into Cato's business. He'd see Clove and no doubt report back to Cato's father. He'd be wrenched away from Clove and never see her again.

'I think it's Orwell,' he murmured to Clove, as the steps came closer and closer. He felt her breathe in sharply, her small chest pulled up in fright. Or was it fright? Clove didn't get frightened. None the less, he reached out for her hand and the small comfort it could give him. Instead of warm flesh though, he found only the cold harshness of metal. The shock of it ran through the tips of his fingers and he looked down and a shiver ran down his spine.

'Clove, no…' he began to say, but it was too late.

The figure stepped into the light and Clove raised the gun.

The shot rang out and all Cato could see was red.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hi everyone! Wow, first of all, I know, I suck. It's taken me too long to update this fic and I'm really sorry. If any of you are still reading it, props to you and now eat a cupcake from me. I've been super busy with school (I had three essays last weekend) and then there's some depressing family stuff that's cropped up. But writing is still my escape and I love doing it so I try and keep it up! Thank you all so much for leaving all your lovely reviews; they make me so happy when I re-read them (yes, I do that, I am sad). Here's hoping you enjoy this chapter, it's a long one! ;)_

_Love, Isabelle xx_

* * *

There was a humming in his ears was ringing endlessly.

As Cato blinked wildly, the red in front of his eyes diminished but there was still the humming, the humming that seemed to pierce his ears and send shivers running all the way down his spine. It wasn't until Cato finally focused on the scene in front of him that he realised it wasn't a humming he was hearing at all. It was the groan of a dying man. For a second, Cato couldn't breathe either. Then the man let out one last gasp – and there was silence.

Slowly, Cato began to register what he was seeing before him. A middle aged man – not Orwell, thank God, thank God – was lying flat on the floor in front of him, a small pool of red liquid staining the front of his shirt. Bile bubbled up in Cato's throat and he swallowed quickly to prevent himself from retching. Clove was still standing next to him, her arm extended, her hand still tightly clutching the gun. Her hand was trembling so badly that the gun was shaking, even as she kept her strong hold on it.

Suddenly, Cato jumped forward and smacked it out of her hand. The gun clattered to the floor and came to rest next to the body. Clove didn't even respond, just kept staring forward at the man on the floor.

'I shot him,' Clove said numbly.

'No,' Cato muttered, more to himself than in reply to her.

'I did.' Clove nodded to the corpse. 'He's right there.'

_Fuck_. That was the only thing Cato could think of, so he thought it some more. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. They'd killed a man. He refused to think of it as just her. No, they were one now, he was Clove and she was him. They'd done it together. And now they had to get out of it.

Another bang, far off across the set, made Cato jump, startling him out of his thoughts and back into the real world. Somewhere, a door had opened and a narrow beam of light streamed across the room.

'Joe?' a voice called, through the door. 'Joe, are you in here?'

_Joe_, Cato thought, pointlessly. _His name was Joe_.

'Joe?' Another voice chimed in. 'Are you alright? We heard a bang.'

Cato's mind started to whir. If they'd heard the bang and Joe didn't reply, they were sure to come in and find him and Clove here with the body. If they did that, there was no way he would be able to talk them out of it. They had to get out of the film-set. And fast.

'Clove,' he murmured, grabbing onto her elbow. 'Clove, we have to go.'

She didn't reply, but continued staring blankly at the body in front of her.

'_Clove_.' Cato was feeling frantic now; he needed to get her out of there before the men came and found them. 'Goddamnit,' he muttered under his breath, then surged forward to scoop her up in his arms, placing one hand under the back of her knees, the other under her shoulder blades. She felt rigid under his hands, stubborn and unmoving. A week or so ago, if he'd done that, she'd have been laughing and hot under his touch, fiery and eager. Now, she seemed cold as ice.

Shifting her weight under his arms, Cato turned and started running back through the film set the way he had come. Behind him, he could hear voices moving into the room from the door, which just made him move faster.

'Hey! Stop!' one yelled at him, as he ducked back down the corridor of dressing rooms. _Like hell I will_, Cato thought to himself. Quickening his pace, he dove past Clove's dressing room. _That's where I first kissed her_, he thought absently, and felt a pang of sadness for what they had been then: hot, passionate, excited and in need of each other. She still needs me, he thought, and tightened his grip on her.

Bursting out of the sidedoor, Cato hurried back down the alleyway towards the car. He had 'borrowed' the keys to the motor from Orwell's hotel room that afternoon, planning on taking Clove out for dinner in it before Orwell got back from his day off. Obviously, things hadn't turned out quite like that.

He fumbled with the passenger door and finally opened it; hurriedly, he placed Clove down in the seat as carefully as he could then scrambled around to slide into the driver's seat.

'Come on, come on,' he hissed through clenched teeth, trying to jam the keys into the start-up, painfully aware of how little time they had. 'Ha!' The key slotted into the engine at last and Cato grabbed a hold of the wheel and put the motor into reverse.

As he was just about to floor it, a man burst out of the sidedoor that he and Clove had just come from. He had a dark beard and was holding his hands out in front of him. They were covered in bright red blood. His eyes locked onto Cato's and a frightening understanding passed between them, one that send a hot flush of blood rushing to Cato's head. There was hatred in the man's face. Cato could see it. Without breaking the contact, his foot found the accelerator. Revving up, Cato slammed down and the car jerked to life, speeding out of the alley and away into the streets of New York, like the fires of hell were blowing on the back of his neck.

The car screeched around the corner and instantly melted into the flood of other vehicles making their way through the streets. A sheer cloak of darkness was beginning to fall on the city, but a low sea mist had snuck in while Cato had been inside the film set which gave the air a damp feel and a shiver ran down his spine. Anxiously, Cato glanced quickly back over his shoulder to see if the man had followed him out of the alley, but, much to his intense relief, he hadn't.

They sped away, across the middle of the city and through the growing dark. The blood was still pumping furiously through the veins on Cato's forehead and he could feel it pulse in his eyelids._ Breathe_. He let out a long, harrowed sigh and fumbled across the seat to find Clove's hand. She jumped a little as he took it into his own, but did not pull away.

'Where are we going?' she asked him. Her voice was pained but her fingers flickered with life as she squeezed his back.

Cato considered this question. Where were they going, indeed? Where _could_ they go? Not back to the hotel. He thought with longing of the large bed with it's pure white sheets and soft drapes, where he and Clove had kissed each other, hit each other, loved each other. But no, they couldn't go back there. Someone would find them for sure. Mr and Mrs Beauchamp wouldn't help them, he was certain of that. And his father…Cato wanted to throw up, just thinking of what Mr Maxwell would do. He'd turn them into the police as if it was nothing.

'I don't know,' he told her simply.

Clove sunk back into her seat and her hand went limp in his. Suddenly, it clenched. 'I know!' she exclaimed, twisting in her seat to see him. 'We need to get away. Leave New York. I have some money,' she struggled down the front of her dress and pulled out several banknotes, 'we can just leave and never come back.'

'Where did you get the money?' Cato asked, trying to keep his eyes on the road. He swallowed anxiously. His throat was incredibly dry.

'John gave it to me,' she said, her fingers clenching around the notes. 'Compensation.'

'Bribery,' Cato countered, gritting his teeth.

'Whatever it is,' Clove snapped, 'it means we can go somewhere together. You and me. At least for a little while, anyway, until we can figure something out. There's about five hundred dollars here.' She lurched across the vehicle, causing Cato to swerve. He swore, and steered the car off the road and onto the side of the pavement. A stream of horn blares shrieked past them.

'Please,' Clove begged him, a wild ferocity in her eyes. 'Say yes. Let's leave. You and me.'

Cato thought. There was a burning desire inside him to appease her, to make her happy. He wanted to take away her pain and fear and mould her back into the girl who'd held a knife to his throat and flipped him over when they were in bed. But he also knew that there was no way this could end well. Best case, they'd be running for the rest of their lives. He'd never see Connie or Tom ever again, they would never be able to return. But who else would he rather be with for the rest of his life than Clove?

'Alright,' he said, eventually. 'We'll go.'

Delight lit up her eyes and she reached forward to grab his face in her hands. 'You and me?' she breathed excitedly.

_God, she's beautiful_. 'You and me,' he repeated, gripping her back. When he kissed her, she tasted of death, but he pushed it away and concentrated on the promise that was there too.

When he kissed her, he could almost kid himself that everything would be alright.

* * *

Night was fully fallen on New York as Orwell made his way down Wall Street, cap in hand, towards Mr Maxwell's offices. The street lamps had been lit and they cast a dim, orange glow over the empting streets, bathing the world in an eerie light. As he walked, Orwell could hear the jazz bands starting up, far away across the river, catching him up on the wind. _The young will take any opportunity to celebrate,_ he thought to himself, then shivered and pulled his coat collar closer to his neck.

He reached the office and rang the bell, his foot tapping urgently against the stone slabs of the stairs.

'Come on, come on,' he muttered to himself, then looked up eagerly as the blonde secretary bobbed up to open the door.

'Mr Maxwell is not seeing clients any more tonight,' she chirped, her voice crisp to match the fading summer night.

'I'm not a client,' Orwell snapped, pushing past her and making for the stairs. He rarely visited his employer at his New York office, being most of the time with his son. But the few times he had been were sufficient to know which Mr Maxwell's office was.

'Orwell.' Andrew Maxwell stood, surprised, when his old chauffeur knocked, then entered the room. 'What on earth are you doing here?'

'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,' Orwell said, keeping his back straight and his head high. 'But you see…it's important.'

'Of course, of course.' Andrew gestured to a seat for Orwell to sit in. 'What's the matter?'

Taking a deep breath, Orwell began. 'This afternoon, you know, it was my day off. I left the keys to the motor in my jacket in my hotel room when I went down to breakfast. This evening, as I returned to the hotel, I found that the car was gone.'

'Gone?' Andrew's bushy eyebrows scrunched up in alarm. 'But how?'

'The keys are missing,' Orwell admitted, dropping his head. 'The keys are gone and Cato is too.'

'Cato…' Understanding dawned in Andrew's eyes. 'Damn! He took the motor?'

'He was the only one with access to my room, sir, and he knows how to drive. But, sir, I'm afraid there's more.'

Andrew Maxwell furrowed his brow. 'Go on.'

'I just heard reports, sir,' Orwell stammered. 'Of a shooting downtown. Witnesses say there was a young man and a woman involved and they got away in a motorcar.' He stopped to take a breath. 'The description matched my own.'

Andrew felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. His vision blurred and his palms felt cold and clammy. _No_. 'A man and a woman, you say?' he asked, hoarsely.

'Yes, sir.'

'Orwell,' Andrew Maxwell stood up and made his way over to the window, where he stood, staring out at the city skyline and the ocean far off in the distance. 'Do you know whereabouts this shooting took place?'

'Yes, sir.' Andrew braced himself. 'It was at a film set, I think. For that new Romeo and Juliet variation.' Deeply, Andrew let out a long, hard sigh. _So, this is how far he went_, he thought to himself.

'Orwell.'

The old chauffeur sat up straight. 'Yes, sir?'

'Did the reports say where abouts this motor was heading?'

'Yes, towards Brooklyn, I think.'

Andrew nodded slowly and felt in his pocket for his box of cigarettes. 'Orwell, bring my car around, would you?' he asked, sticking a cigar in his mouth and fumbling for a match. 'I have a feeling we need to be driving over to Brooklyn.'

'Of course, sir,' Orwell muttered, backing quickly out of the room and down the stairs. In his office, Andrew Maxwell took a long drag on his cigar and blew out the smoke, letting it billow up and cloud against the window pane until it had totally obscured his view.

Outside, Orwell rubbed his hands together as he hurried round the back of the offices to the spot where Mr Maxwell's immaculate, leather seated Cadillac was parked, neatly, on the curb. The music had gotten louder, he mused, and faster. More lights had come on since he'd been in the office and he could tell by the brightness that some of them were the newest technology, made from neon. He wondered where in the vastness of New York City Cato and his girl were.

Orwell opened the driver's door and got into the car. He shivered and gazed out of the window. Not far from Wall Street were the infamous 'ash heaps' from the industrial estate, where piles upon piles of black, suffocating ash were shovelled every day. Normally, the smell never quite reached around to Manhattan but today, the wind was blowing the wrong way and as he'd gotten into the car, Orwell had caught a whiff of it.

The smell of ashes. The smell of death.


End file.
